


Sherlock Attempts Phone Sex (and it goes about as you'd expect)

by wendymarlowe



Series: John and Sherlock's Kinky First Times [36]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Phone Sex, clueless!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-08-23 19:52:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8340511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe
Summary: Sherlock masquerades as a phone sex operator in order to get a peek via the video at a suspect's flat. It's a disaster waiting to happen, a glorious, popcorn-worthy disaster, and John Watson isn't going to miss one single second of it.Even if he ends up giving a bit more in the way of personal direction than he'd expected.(Part of my "John and Sherlock's Kinky First Times" series of shorts, all revolving around the same basic theme of "John and Sherlock get sexy for the first time and also discover some kinky stuff about each other.")





	1. Chapter 1

“John, I may need your help with this. How extensive is your experience with phone sex lines?”

John took the time to dig out an actual bookmark before putting his novel down, because heaven knew this sounded like the kind of interruption that would take a while. Sherlock was sitting at the table in the kitchen, frowning at his laptop and typing rapidly on his mobile. “Calling into, or working for?” John asked.

Sherlock’s head snapped up at that. “You - what?”

“It’s rather different, obviously. Being the employee or being the one paying for it. And I really wouldn’t have assumed you’d need a phone sex line at all, given the way you can turn heads just by walking into a room. Kind of a lot of work just to get off, isn’t it?”

“That’s . . . I . . . It’s for the Cunningham case. Not for me.” The faint blush on Sherlock’s cheeks might have just been a trick of the light, but it was fun to imagine him struggling to place _phone sex worker_ into his assumptions about John’s past. “So, you, ah. Helped pay for uni like that? You do seem to have no problem attracting women’s interest for the initial-”

“Flattering, Sherlock, but no.” With John’s luck, Sherlock would get the wrong idea and then bring it up in front of the Yard or something. “Stamford did, though. When we were flatmates at med school.”

Sherlock made a face.

“Oh, don’t even.” It wasn’t hard to tell where Sherlock’s thoughts were going, but the berk had _no_ idea. “He’s got a nice voice, you have to admit. And even though he’s not gay he seemed to be very popular with a certain type of caller. Said the company assigned him to a lot of lonely blokes who wanted to be talked through something with romance - sweet nothings and imagined cuddling and all that. The job had flexible hours and required nothing physically taxing and I’m sure he’d be happy to tell you more about it if you asked politely.”

Sherlock’s disapproving expression was very definitely aimed at John now.

Yeah, that was an amusing mental image - Sherlock calling up Mike and grilling him on all the details of his “sordid past,” as Mike usually called it. In truth, it was no more sordid than many customer service jobs, and John had been tempted to give it a shot more than once. Probably wouldn’t have been as bad as bartending, even, in terms of how much flirtation was involved.

“No time,” Sherlock grumbled. “Nigel Cunningham always calls this “Gay 4 U” service at nine PM on Thursday evenings. He’s been a regular customer of a young man named Ian for the last two months. Ian has agreed to forward the Skype call to me, but we have less than twenty minutes left and the internet has proved spectacularly unhelpful as to what, exactly, phone sex operators _say_.” He shoved his chair away from the table and made to stand up. “I think it would be better if you do it, John. You know more about these things.”

John blinked. “Okay, first off, I’m not the one who agreed to a sex chat with a potential blackmailer without knowing the first thing about it. How’s this going to help, anyway?”

“Lestrade refuses to let me break into his flat without a warrant.”

“Oh, you can be taught!” John teased. “. . . And?”

Sherlock waved vaguely at the laptop screen. “And Ian said they usually do a one-way video, so when Cunningham signs on I’ll get a look at whether there’s anything incriminating in the background.”

“Ah.” That made sense, actually, in a Sherlock kind of way. “Hate to break it to you, Sherlock, but he’s probably gonna guess that you’re not Ian. Even if the video’s just one way.”

“Of course he will.” Sherlock shot John his _don’t be so dense_ look. “Tonight I’m Mikey, a new guy filling in for Ian while Ian has laryngitis.” He raised his voice slightly and lost a bit of his usual arrogance, and he suddenly sounded ten years younger. “I’ve only been working here for three days, so I’m gonna need someone to talk me through it all. Please, Nigel, describe how you’d like to fantasize about us performing intercourse.”

John managed to hold his neutral expression until Sherlock got to the word _intercourse,_ but then he absolutely lost it. Sherlock dropped the act immediately, an affronted frown replacing his attempt at a sexy twink impression. “John,” he said in his normal voice, “you’re not helping.”

“God, no, I’m not, am I?” John panted between giggles. “Sherlock, you - Christ!” He grabbed hold of the nearest chair and dragged himself into it before he fell over. “Sorry, it’s just . . . I’ve _seen_ you flirt for cases before. I know you know how it works.”

Sherlock scowled. “I’ve flirted as myself, obviously. In environments where I controlled the interaction. Never as . . .” He waved toward the laptop again. “ _That._ I assumed an hour of browsing the internet would be sufficient research but nothing I’ve come across on the topic was at _all_ arousing. Most of the suggested actions ranged from sounding uncomfortable to kinetically impossible.”

“That’s the virtue of fantasy, obviously.” John leaned forward so he could prop his elbows on the table. Of course the one time he was able to actually educate Sherlock about something, it would have to be the pornier side of the internet. Sherlock would be mentioning it for months. _“Oh, yes, of course. John knows all about that, don’t you, John?”_ Still, the git probably wouldn’t realize that Greg would be siding with John on this one because good grief, how did Sherlock get to be in his mid-30s and not know anything about what other human beings find hot? “Not everything you come across on the internet is going to be based on what people actually do, Sherlock. Sometimes fantasies are just that.”

“Then what’s the purpose? Why foster a sexual attraction to activities which would rarely or never happen in real life? I highly doubt you’ve ever performed a prostate exam with your penis, John, but there’s an entire website dedicated to dubious medical scenarios in which the doctors do just that.”

“Yes, well, the NHS has to make budget cutbacks sometime,” John deadpanned. It took a moment for Sherlock to catch on, which was _hilarious._ “Look,” he said, “I don’t know what to tell you. People like what they like. Statistically I’ve probably had at least a handful of patients who get off on browsing those kinds of sites, but I have yet for a patient walk into my clinic and actually believe their exam will result in sex. Some people get off on rape fantasies, too, but that doesn’t mean they’d actually want to be raped. Libido is just strange.”

Sherlock sniffed. “Logically, then, since you’re the one with the experience-”

“Yeah, no.” John stood up and retrieved his novel from the sofa - whatever happened, this was going to be comedy _gold_ and there was no way he was going to miss even one second of Sherlock trying to deduce Nigel Cunningham’s flat while attempting to play a horny twenty-year-old phone sex operator. “You’re the one with the sexy voice, so he’d probably prefer you anyway. Even if you’re bollocks at fantasy role play.”

A pause. Then - “You think my voice is sexy?”

“Christ, have you ever even _heard_ yourself?” John may not have been quite ready to admit to a more-than-platonic fascination with his “married to my work” flatmate, but calling Sherlock’s voice sexy was like calling rain wet. It just _was_. “I’ll listen in and offer suggestions if you’re floundering, since it’s for the case, but there’s really not all that much to it. Let him direct the conversation, pretend you’re interested in fucking him, and remind yourself the sooner he gets off, the sooner you can hang up.”

Sherlock pursed his lips, but nodded. “All right.” He disappeared to his room and emerged a moment later with a pen and a pad of paper, which he put on the table in front of John. Just as he sat back down in his own chair, the computer trilled with the distinctive sound of an incoming call.

“Ready?” John asked.

Sherlock’s usually-confident smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Ready.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I know absolutely nothing about how phone sex lines work, and I didn't feel inclined to do the research for this particular detail. Just roll with it :-)

“You’re not Ian.” Nigel didn’t even wait for Sherlock to finish a greeting before interrupting him. “Transfer me, please.”

Sherlock slumped down in his chair a bit. He probably didn’t even realize he was adopting more than just a new voice for the charade, but John was as fascinated as ever to watch him work. “Ian’s sick today,” he said in that slightly-unsure, definitely-younger voice. “My name’s Mike. Or Mikey. Or whatever you want to call me, I guess it’s up to you. I’m . . .” He blinked rapidly, almost like he really was embarrassed. If it hadn’t been Sherlock, John would have believed it. _Damn._ “I’m probably not supposed to tell you this,” Sherlock said, “but I just started here and you’re actually my first call. Ian said you’d be good for me.”

“Mmph.” There was a long pause while Nigel deliberated. Then . . . “How old are you, Mikey? Tell me what you look like.”

Sherlock’s smug glance settled on John for merely a second before he slipped back into character. “I’m twenty,” he lied, “and I have a big penis.”

“ **COCK,** ” John wrote on the paper, and shoved it in front of Sherlock.

“Cock,” Sherlock amended. “A nice one. I try to keep myself in shape, although I’m never going to be particularly muscle-y. Too skinny for that.”

“Mmm,” Nigel said again. “Skinny I can work with. What about the rest of you?”

Sherlock leaned down onto his elbows, putting his mouth a bit closer to the laptop’s microphone and speaking in an already-breathy tone. “Please, sir, can I see you? Or - can I call you sir?”

“You damn well better.” Nigel must have turned on his end of the video connection, finally, because Sherlock immediately straightened and focused intently on the screen. “Like what you see, slut?”

“Oh, I do. I do, sir.” Sherlock motioned for the pen and paper, which John quickly passed over to him. “I think I’m not as tall as you are, but I’ve been told I do have a beautiful mouth. High cheekbones, ‘cupid’s bow’ lips, whatever that means. I have reddish hair and very light skin and I bruise easily. Do you plan to be taking care of me, sir?” He scribbled something and shoved the paper back at John. **CALENDAR BEHIND HIM HAS ‘LK 3 PM’ ON SUNDAY. INVESTIGATE.**

Nigel laughed. The sound was dark and ugly and John wanted very much to reach through the video connection and strangle him, even without being able to see whatever Sherlock was seeing. **A PLEASE WOULD BE NICE,** he wrote at the bottom of Sherlock’s note, then went back into the sitting room to get his own laptop so his horrible, distracting, loud typing (according to the man who regularly tortured the violin at 3 AM) wouldn’t be audible over the connection.

“Depends on how you define it,” Nigel murmured. “Tell me - have you ever been gagged, handcuffed, thrown over the foot of the bed, and fucked so hard you couldn’t breathe? So your sloppy, slutty hole was open so wide it could fit my fingers _and_ my cock? Look at it, Mikey. You want this inside you?”

There was a rustling from Nigel’s end of the connection, presumably as he dropped his pants. The noise just about covered over the sonic boom from how quickly the blood rushed to Sherlock’s face. John would have thought that meant Nigel’s cock was something spectacular, if it hadn’t been for the utterly lost look in Sherlock’s eyes as he tore his gaze from the laptop and stared at John.

“Incredible,” Sherlock squeaked out, looking anything but eager. “But I don’t know if I could-”

“Oh, you would.” Nigel chuckled again. “In fact, I know you phone blokes don’t have video on your end, but I want to hear you. Strip out of whatever you’re wearing and finger yourself for me. Tell me what it feels like.”

Sherlock sat frozen for several seconds, gaping at John. **HELP** , he finally wrote and held it up for John to see. “I’m, ah. I’m getting my shoes off now. Want me to describe it?”

“Your shoes?” Nigel grunted something which was probably a _no_. “Feet aren’t my thing, pretty boy. Freckles, though - you got freckles, ginger like you?”

“Is . . is that bad?”

“Only if you’re lying to me. If you were, I’d bend you over my knee and spank your arse until the whole thing was so red and bruised you couldn’t tell whether there were freckles or not. Hurry up.”

There really was nothing for it - Sherlock was still sitting there in not-quite-fully-operational mode, as far as John could tell, and Nigel was going to notice any second that the Mikey voice was dropping away the longer Sherlock’s brain stayed broken. John was barefoot already, thankfully, which made it relatively easy to pad over and stand behind Sherlock. He put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder to hold him still, then noisily removed his belt and put it down on the table. The buckle made a distinct _click._

“You were wearing a belt,” Nigel guessed. “Posher than I expected.”

John tried to give Sherlock an encouraging look, and nodded his head toward the laptop screen. From this angle he could finally see what Nigel looked like - or rather, what Nigel’s lap looked like, because the man’s camera was pointed pretty squarely at his cock and the frame only covered him from thigh to navel. The rational side of John’s brain noted that the man’s penis looked perfectly normal, like any of the hundreds of patients John had ended up examining over his medical career, but the much larger, oddly possessive part was repulsed by the sight of the bloke’s knob just _there_ like he had every right to be stroking it like that.

“Have to,” Sherlock said, the Mikey voice back once more. “The, ah. My jeans fall down if I don’t have a belt. Hips are too skinny for my legs to be this long, I guess.”

 **TELL HIM ABOUT YOUR PLUSH ARSE,** John wrote quickly. Medical school may not have done anything good for his handwriting legibility, but he could bloody well write fast in an emergency. This certainly felt like it counted.

Sherlock shot him a strange over-the-shoulder look. “I’ve been told I have a particularly nice arse, though,” he rallied. “I’m not lying about the freckles, but if I were - if you spanked me - you’d see.”

Nigel had already been fondling himself lazily, but at Sherlock’s words he squeezed and sped up for a few strokes. “Let me hear it,” he demanded. “A good smack before you get yourself nice and open for me.”

 _Shit._ Other than John’s missing shoes and now missing belt, they were both still fully-clothed. And that particular sound wasn’t something easy to replicate. Unless . . . John caught Sherlock’s chin and turned him around partway so they were facing each other and could use some of the crude hand signals they’d developed over the course of their dangerous-criminal-chasing career.

 _Trust me?_ John signed.

Sherlock blinked, but nodded.

John kept his eyes locked on Sherlock’s, even as he delivered a swift (and loud) slap to Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock’s jaw dropped, but he didn’t make a sound.

“Fuck,” Nigel groaned. “That’s it, slut. Again.”

Sherlock nodded almost imperceptibly - and tilted his head so John could reach his other cheek.

 _Well God. Fucking. Damn._ John was forcibly reminded of Irene Adler and her assertion that “I could cut myself on those cheekbones.” And here Sherlock was, submitting to it again, because this time it was John.

He slapped again. Sherlock’s eyes went a little unfocused but he didn’t seem angry at all.

_Is it possible he - he likes this?_

John had worked very, very hard to not think about “Sherlock” and “sex” in the same mental sentence. Most of the time it was easy, actually, because Sherlock was Sherlock and “Have you moved the biscuit tin; one of my cockroaches seems to have escaped” or “Don’t mind the sediment in the bottom of the bathtub, John, it won’t irritate your skin unless you’re standing there for more than fifteen minutes at a time” tended to preclude any libidinous thoughts John might have otherwise been having. There was also the fact that John was straight ( _or at least trying his best to be, thankyouverymuch_ ) and Sherlock used phrases like “perform a prostate exam with your penis” because he’d literally had to scour internet porn for ideas on how to talk dirty and had no bloody clue what sex was all about. Almost certainly had no clue. Probably didn’t.

_Fuck._

“Bend those long legs up,” Nigel barked. “Pretend I can see you. Can you take four fingers at once, slut? You been out getting your hole used and stretched so I can fuck you all the way deep on the first thrust?” He was visibly oozing now, the camera close-up giving John way more detail than he’d ever wanted to see of another man’s leaking penis. Another man who wasn’t Sherlock, that was. Sherlock looked up at John for confirmation, so John shook his head no.

“You’re my first call,” Sherlock reminded him in a shaky voice. “My - my -”

**HOLE IS SO TIGHT**

“-hole is so tight,” Sherlock echoed. “I’m afraid you’ll hurt me.”

“Damn right I will.” Nigel rolled his hips, his cock punching through the circle of his fingers like a pornographic jack-in-the-box.

“Can I see your face again?” Sherlock clearly wasn’t any more enthused than John was about the close-up on the man’s wedding tackle. Probably has already deduced everything he could about the man by his pubic hair, John decided. Or - he realized as Nigel panned the camera up and he got a look at both the man’s flat and his face - Sherlock just needed more data.

Nigel Cunningham himself had a weasley-looking face, thin lips, and a receding hairline. He managed to look even worse in person (as it were) than he had on the CCTV footage they had of him. His flat would have made 221B look tidy.

Sherlock was slower to get back into deductive mode again, this time, but he eventually grabbed the pad and started scribbling, his eyes never straying from the screen. John wasn’t going to even attempt to make sense of the man’s shorthand - Sherlock’s lab notes were completely incomprehensible to anyone else and (although he’d probably deny it with his dying breath) often himself as well. When John lightly laid a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, Sherlock jumped.

 _Talk,_ John signed. _Target suspicious._

Their pidgin BSL was rudimentary at best, but Sherlock understood. “Tell me what to do,” he breathed. His voice came out as somewhere halfway between its normal “jaguar in a cello” register and Mikey’s younger timbre, but Nigel didn’t seem to notice. Or care. “I’m naked now and I’ve got a finger up my bum but your penis is so much bigger.”

 _Oh for fuck’s sake!_ John rolled his eyes - Sherlock would notice, of course he’d notice - and grabbed the pad of paper.

**COCK , NOT PENIS**

he wrote. Then, filling the next sheet:

**MY HOLE FEELS SO EMPTY**

**CAN I TOUCH MY COCK PLEASE SIR**

**I NEED TO FEEL YOU INSIDE ME**

**OH, JUST FOUND MY GLAND ( MOAN A LOT AT THIS)**

**PLEASE MAY I COME SIR**

**I’M SITTING ON MY OTHER HAND LIKE YOU’VE HANDCUFFED ME**

**IT PRESSES INTO WHERE I SPANKED MYSELF AND IT FEELS SO GOOD SIR**

**HURTS BUT FEELS GOOD I NEED YOU TO MAKE ME FEEL BETTER**

** JUST BLOODY START TALKING ALREADY **

Sherlock was gaping at him by the end of his little written tirade, but it’s not like he wouldn’t have already deduced that John was probably good at talking dirty during sex when the situation allowed for it. He certainly made enough pointed little comments about John’s “conquests.” Never anything that would indicate he suspected John had explored anal with a girlfriend or two - both giving and receiving, although John had quickly discovered he much preferred topping - but there was really no way to tell whether Sherlock’s silence on the subject was because he hadn’t deduced it, didn’t want to talk about it, or didn’t realize there was more than one way to have sexual intercourse with another human being. Sometimes it was hard to tell how many topics the “spectacularly ignorant” spectrum covered.

“Can-I-touch-my-cock-please-sir?” Sherlock squeaked.

Nigel cocked his head to one side, as if considering, but quickly shook his head no. “Not yet, slut,” he said. “Work that one finger in and out until I say you can do more.”

“But I want-”

“Shut it.” He sat back in his chair, the camera now picking up the movements of his arm as he wanked lazily. “In fact, I want two fingers in your mouth and two in your arse. Plug you up good now.”

Sherlock frowned. “That would defeat the purpose of phone sex, though, seeing as-”

 _Oh good lord._ John had his hand out and two fingers pressed up against Sherlock’s lips before he really realized he was going to do it. Sherlock’s eyes went wide.

And then he slipped his mouth around John’s fingertips and sucked gently.

John couldn’t hold in the groan.

“That’s it,” Nigel crowed. “Gag on them. That’s me filling you from both ends.”

Sherlock’s gaze never left John’s face as he slowly worked John’s fingers into his mouth. Nigel was still talking at them in the background, some sort of running commentary he probably thought was turning Sherlock on, but John felt like he and Sherlock were already worlds away. Neither of them were breathing, at least. Sherlock’s lips looked downright obscene in a way that crashed through every barrier John had ever put up on the subject of Sherlock and sex.

 _I want this,_ Sherlock’s eyes said. How had John ever thought Sherlock uninterested in a sexual relationship? The man was practically begging him without words. John licked his lips - an unconscious movement until Sherlock’s focus abruptly shifted and he realized what he was doing - and slowly raised his other hand up to cup Sherlock’s jaw. Sherlock moaned again.

“Fuck yes. Take it, slut.” Nigel’s renewed outburst startled them both into looking at the screen again. The man had a downright lecherous sneer on his face and his forearm was practically flying back and forth just out of range of the camera.

Sherlock let go of John’s fingers with a wet _pop_ and a silent look that implored him to wait a moment. “Oh, please,” Sherlock said in Mikey’s voice. His tone was one step short of mocking, but obviously Nigel was too far gone to care. “Yes, uh, like that. Please. More, sir. I’m - oh shit. My mum’s home. I’ve got to go.” And he slammed the lid of the laptop down with more force that was strictly necessary.

John gaped at him. “Sherlock, did you just-”

Sherlock twisted quickly in his seat so he could bury his face against John’s stomach and wrap his arms around his hips. “Couldn’t stand hearing him ramble like that,” he said, his voice muffled by John’s jumper. “And I don’t care about the case anymore.”

Well _that_ was unprecedented. “Since when do you lose interest before solving a case?”

There was a hint of the _don’t be an idiot_ expression in Sherlock’s face when he looked back up. “Since I realized I want you to shag me,” he announced. As if that wasn’t the single most earth-shattering thing that had ever happened in John Watson’s life. And then his cupid’s bow lips (hadn’t been lying about those, _damn_ ) quirked upward into a tiny smirk. “Also because his pronunciation of the words 'both ends’ suggests a childhood spent in Surrey, an accent quirk our client shares despite spending two decades in Paris afterward. I’ll still look up who ‘LK’ is before Sunday, just to be certain, but our attempted blackmail appears to merely be a case of a boyhood love affair gone sour. Pedestrian.”

“Git.” John couldn’t decide between rolling his eyes at Sherlock’s recitation of the _obvious_ conclusion or volunteering his fingers for Sherlock to slobber on again. He opted for both.

Sherlock sucked in a small breath (surprised?) but then engulfed John’s fingers and tentatively bathed them with his tongue in a series of shallow pulls. John didn’t have to look down to deduce that they were both aroused.

“Bedroom,” Sherlock gasped when he finally let go. “John, I don’t - I know I want this, but I don’t know what to _do_. It’s maddening.”

 _Oh, that’s not going to be a problem._ John cupped Sherlock’s nape and squeezed, making the detective’s eyes practically roll back in his head. “Trust me,” John declared. “If you need direction, I’ll be _more_ than happy to give you as much as you like.”


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock practically dragged John behind him down the short hallway to his room. “Practically” because although John could have easily backed up a step and let Sherlock’s fingertips slip out of his grip, he really didn’t want to. Sherlock tugged him to the bed and sat down with a thump.

“We need fewer clothes,” he declared. “All the internet sites placed a significant sexual value on the dominant partner divesting the submissive partner of their clothing as a form of foreplay - I assume you’d be more comfortable in the dominant role? If not, I can-”

“Sherlock.” John put his fingers over Sherlock’s mouth again. “Shut up. I’m going to ask you a few questions and you are going to answer them, _then_ we can get to the stripping part. Okay?”

Sherlock nodded, eyes wide.

“Right. So first - have you ever done this before?”

“Define ‘this.’”

 _Prat_. “Sexual intercourse with another human being.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “As opposed to with an animal? Or an inanimate object? I’m thirty-five, John. Of _course_ I’ve experimented with sex. I spent two years just after university cataloging a variety of human reactions, including in circumstances where-”

“Yeah, all right, I don’t have to see the log book. I was just wondering.” Funny how he could be so turned on at the sight of Sherlock being eager for sex and yet get such a headache from talking to the berk about it. “You give off some confusing mixed signals, is all.”

Sherlock frowned. “I may have deleted most of it,” he admitted. “They were boring.”

 _That explains some things._ A lot of things, actually. “Second question, then,” John said. “What you said about dominant and submissive roles - is that, I mean, are you . . .”

“A sexual deviant?”

“I was going to say ‘kinky,’ actually. Which is fine, by the way.”

Sherlock gave him an odd look. “That’s an imprecise term, though. I’m amenable to trying whatever you find arousing in a sexual situation and we can refine it from there. That is,” he amended, “if you accept the prospect of future liaisons. I realize you will probably want to see the results of our first attempt before you commit to anything similar in the future.”

 _Christ._ “So you’re good with whatever and you want to keep doing it, even if it turns out terribly?”

“It’s you, John.” Sherlock gazed up at him with complete trust in his eyes. “It’s impossible for the outcome to be unsatisfactory.”

“Okay. Right.” John pinched the bridge of his nose. “My third question was going to be whether you wanted this to be a one-time thing, but you already answered that. Anything you want to ask me?”

“If I think of something, I’ll let you know.”

 _Ha._ “I bet you will. First, though . . . stand up.”

Sherlock stood. John didn’t back up, so they were almost nose to nose. Or nose to collarbone, anyway. _Bloody tall berk._

“Purely because you suggested following advice you found on the internet,” John declared, “you’re going to strip me first. As fast or as slow as you want. No touching skin, though. Only the clothes.”

Those expressive lips twisted up into a pout, but Sherlock didn’t demand a counter-request. Instead he very carefully lifted the hem of John’s jumper and helped slip it over John’s head. The vest followed. Sherlock’s eyes were dark, now, and John could feel his attention as if from a laser as it traversed over his bare torso. Any other time, Sherlock would have been demanding John give full explanations for every little scar and scrape on his skin, _especially_ the bullet wound, but Sherlock stayed silent. He looked like he was concentrating hard on taking off John’s trousers and pants without touching him, even through the fabric. By total coincidence, something else hard was making itself known. Two somethings, if the tent in Sherlock’s pajama bottoms was any indication.

“Look like you expected?”

Sherlock blinked, then retreated back to sit on the edge of the bed again. His eyes never left John’s cock. “I kept trying to extrapolate,” he said quietly. “Based on your - your gait and clothing and your proportions. Seeing the real thing is much better.”

John felt rather the same way. Sherlock wasn’t expecting the naked tackle that knocked him flat onto the mattress, so John managed to wrestle the man out of his clothes and boxers in less than a minute. The tussle resulted in both of them panting for breath, aroused, and giddy with endorphins. John ended up kneeling and straddling Sherlock’s narrow chest. His bare arse was mere centimeters away from Sherlock’s bare cock. Even better, though, is that he had Sherlock’s wrists expertly pinned to the bed on either side of his head and could put quite a bit of weight on them. Sherlock’s eyes were the widest John had ever seen.

In contract with the suddenness of his attack, John lowered himself down for a kiss at glacial speed. Sherlock licked his lips and left his mouth slightly open. When John finally made contact, it was with Sherlock submissive and awed beneath him and himself feeling more in love with his gorgeous, brilliant flatmate than ever before. Sherlock moaned into the kiss but didn’t try to take control. That was good. John deepened it moment by moment, taking a gentle brush of lips by careful degrees into something hotter, dirtier, more of a promise than a kiss. Sherlock, for what may have been the first time in his life, followed John’s lead with absolutely no hesitation.

John was going to explode if they didn’t do something more, though. He drew back far enough to actually see Sherlock’s dazed expression. “Lube?” he asked. “Don’t make me go upstairs for it now.”

“Ah. It’s.” Sherlock turned his head as much as he was able and indicated a drawer in the bedside table. “ _Please,_ John.”

He had to sit up and let go of Sherlock’s hands in order to dig out the small bottle, which was expertly hidden among other small bottles with labels like “drain contents 2581A” and “mucus, common cold, 13/6/12.” John rather suspected Sherlock didn’t wank in bed much. He’d probably mixed up the bottles at least once if he did. Sherlock did keep his arm exactly where it had been put, though, which sent a little thrill of satisfaction down John’s spine.

“Feel free to buck your hips or squirm or whatever it is you do when you’re getting close,” John said casually. He put a dollop of lube on his hand (sniffing the bottle first to avoid any unpleasant surprises, thank you) and closed his fingers to let it warm for a moment against his skin. Then he reached carefully down between them and slicked both Sherlock’s cock and his own.

 _“Ooooh,”_ Sherlock breathed. “John, that’s . . .”

John resumed his former position hovering over his gorgeous flatmate and pinning him down, with the slight modification that their cocks now aligned nicely. It should have been obvious what he intended, but the sharp intake of breath and then the euphoric moan that followed when John slid his hips back a bit and then forward suggested maybe Sherlock hadn’t made the connection. To be fair, John wasn’t at peak mental form either.

He couldn’t easily kiss Sherlock’s mouth in this position, thanks to their height difference, but he had excellent access to the man’s throat. That long, elegant, pale throat, which would probably bruise easily and show the evidence for _days_. John started a slow rhythm with his hips, little circles that slid his cock back and forth against Sherlock’s, and forced himself to stick to mere licking. _Marking_ Sherlock could come later.

“Please,” Sherlock moaned. His voice was broken, a shadow of its normal timbre. “John, I-”

“I want to see you come undone,” John murmured into Sherlock’s neck. “I want to be the one who sends your beautiful, brilliant brain offline and makes you come screaming my name. I want you so many ways, Sherlock - kneeling in the shower, thrown rough over the kitchen table, right here on your knees and I’d take you from behind. Blindfolded and handcuffed to the headboard, so you’d be helpless and you’d _have_ to accept whatever I was handing out. Would you like that, do you think?”

Sherlock’s reply was more of a squeak than actual words, but John interpreted it as a yes anyway.

“Imagine,” he continued. “I’m sitting fully clothed in my armchair some morning, idly reading the paper, and you’re sprawled naked on the sofa. Fucking yourself with a toy I bought for you - a plug shaped like a magnifying glass, maybe. Maybe a test tube. A honeybee in flight. You’re sweaty and writhing and can’t _quite_ come yet, and you know it’s full daylight and a client could walk in at any moment. I glance over at you every once in a while and tell you what you’re allowed to do next. Now take it as deep as you can go, now just tease the rim of your hole until your hands are trembling. Now lie perfectly still for exactly one minute - count it for me. I keep you right on the edge until I’ve finished the paper, at which point I calmly walk over to you and just _breathe_ on your cock and you come so hard you see stars. Are you imagining this yet?”

“Yes,” Sherlock wailed. “Yes, please, John. All of it. Please, I’m so close . . .”

It only took a few more strokes before John could feel Sherlock stiffening below him, and then he was moaning loud enough for Mrs. Hudson and all the patrons of Speedy’s to hear and coming in great bursts all over their lube-slicked stomachs. John pulled back just enough he wouldn’t abrade Sherlock’s surely-oversensitive-now cock and wanked himself until he couldn’t hold back either. He came all over Sherlock’s cock, his stomach, his nearly hairless chest. Rolling off and landing on his back instead of putting all his weight on Sherlock took a ridiculous amount of effort.

“So.”

“So,” Sherlock echoed.

“Did you find that to be worth repeating?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and let out a slightly-hoarse giggle. “Don’t be dull,” he said, still panting every few words. “Wouldn’t be . . . science if we didn’t . . . replicate results.”

“The science of copulation?”

Sherlock grinned at the ceiling, eyes still closed. “Exactly.”

John couldn’t help but grin too. “Might be a bit of a shift for the usual readers of your website who were expecting tobacco ash,” he teased, “but I guarantee you nobody would find it boring.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Sorry I haven't been around AO3 as much recently - I still can't believe I have a real actual M/M romance series coming out (with a real actual deadline to match) and it turns out those are a lot of work :-)
> 
> Speaking of writing, though . . . those of you who have been following my fics for more than a year or so might remember a survey my friend Annabeth Albert and I did last February, soliciting suggestions about this free novella we were going to write. Now, a year later, SAVE THE DATE is finally out! I've got links to various places you can get it at [http://wendyqualls.com/books/save_the_date.](http://wendyqualls.com/books/save_the_date/)
> 
> So yeah - if you enjoy M/M romance and would like to read about a nerdy virgin rocket scientist who gets tangled up with a sexy out-and-proud soldier, check it out :-)


End file.
